The belly of the monster creaks, with every rock of ocean wave,
While the pitter-patter of bare feet Echoes against metal walls of this sentient boat,
And everywhere in the darkness lurks,
Unspeakable horrors of the industrial era: Men and Hunger,
In a yellow coat with only a lighter in hand,
She wanders through this haphazard maze,
Seeking vague memories of when
She was taken, separated
From a distant shore, Home far away

She blinks and time stops
In the fractals of a second
She sees the past and the future
In the frozen mirror glass
A thousand worlds and possibilities
She sees the story of a patriarch
The downfall of a god
And endless other tales of hope, despair, death, rebirth, pain and joy
The wall clock starts ticking,
The dream has ended,
Her spell is broken,
Yet she has seen what she needs,
And against the racing time,
And denying the drone of school,
She pulls out a piece of crumpled paper,
And writes, writes and writes

He struggles to the surface of wakefulness,
Reality is the frigid rock to which he clings,
He gasps for air like a drowning man,
And feels the abyss of the ocean of dreams,
Pulling him in,
The purple night surrounds him and yet is nothing,
Like the inky black that he sees behind closed eyelids,
Filled with smoky hands and persistent voices,
This is why he does not sleep, cannot sleep,
So he rises from the bed, drenched in salt from his ordeal,
And sits at his desk,
Like the day before, the day after and the next,
He begins to write: sleep, dream, rest

I notice the shadow in the corner of my room
As I am tap, tap tapping the keys in the gloom
It seethes with black tendrils of smoke
And through the fog, I see red eyes begin to glow

It is the monster that slinks around my house
Through the crack under the door and the holes in my yard
I am alone in this place and alone in this world
The only thoughts I hear are from the monster in my home

As I watch the shadow in the corner of my room
It grows antlers that are black and silver like the moon
I try not to move, I try not to breathe
But those glowing red eyes are still fixed upon me

It let's out a cry as shrill as the night
And I run from the room to the corridor on the right
The...

Loving you hurts too much
Missing you never hurts enough
As I watch your back retreating
In the distance I know
The last time I will see you
As the person I used to know
You are Fire and Water
I the Earth and Wind
Our souls contrast in colour
But we are not for each other
My tears fall, not knowing why
If we are just friends
Then why do I cry?
Is the loss of your presence
A death in itself
Or have I given away
More than I asked?
Our destinies are different
Worlds far apart
But to me, my memory
You will always have
A special place in my heart
As I nurse my new wounds
Fresh I must start
They say that it is not wise
To cry over spilt milk
But that could never happen
While the bucket might
Have...

She sits in the shell of a place she once knew. The shopping mall of her childhood so lively and full of colours is now a sullen husk barely clinging to threads of its former self. Still if she closes her eyes, she can almost picture it, perfect as it were in her mind. She dreams of another world and another time in her mind castle. The dream expands around her into a temporary reality and her family is there. Her sister Abigail laughs as they share a coffee bun together. Their fathers are waiting, soon they will tour the mall with its bustling music and sparkling colours. Home sings to her, this is where she belongs.

Henry was searching, searching for something. He didn't know what it was he needed it for but he knew that he had to have it. So he tried hard to remember and then some memory trickled through. Yes, he thought, he needed a rope to tie people up with, what people? He found the rope in a bundle amongst other hardware in the shop, he grabbed it, left the cash on the counter and headed out. His feet took him god knows where and then he began to recognize the place. He was on a mission with his team to take out a gang. The gang had been using a combination of magic and human weapons to do their dirty work.
Henry himself had infiltrated the organisation and taken out the leader in a m...

She was indestructible. Or so everyone thought. She felt misunderstood as she stood there. While everyone was cheering her, she felt small...Was she really as good as they thought she was? She wanted to believe it, wanted to feel like she was deserving of their applause but something in the back of her mind wouldn't let her. While she stood on a pedestal amongst those who admired her, she felt that she did not belong. Not here, not anywhere for that matter and not with anyone but herself. Nothing she did was ever good enough. There were so many flaws, too many imperfections. It frustrated her. Made her feel as though she was always putting up a farce. Still, she smiled, even then she wore a m...

The night sky is a clear one as we gather under the series of white canopies in the middle of the empty field. Its insides are illuminated by fairy lights casting a warm golden glow above us that is in stark contrast to the silvery grass outside in the moonlight.
Towards the middle, lively music is playing and I expect that the others must be enjoying themselves, drinking sparkling wines and mingling in the crowd. Here, few of us stray on the fringes, away from the warmth of the fete in full swing. As I look out into the darkness, counting the stars to the horizon, a light breeze sweeps across the ground. I shiver and wrap my scarf tighter around my shoulders.
"Nicole, there you are."
I tu...

Everyone has days when they are down and even then sometimes the blues never go away.
If you are out there and life is just getting to you, you are not alone.
Many of us plod through quietly in silence. You never know what's churning underneath the surface.
But know this, you are brave to be strong. Do not ever discredit your difficulties no matter how trivial they seem.
Do not compare or belittle your struggles. Take a step back and rest.
Then take a deep breath and cross that bridge. You are not weak. You matter, you mean something and someday you will get there.

As I was cleaning I felt a draft in the room. It smelt sweetly of fresh flowers which was odd because I lived in the middle of an industrialized neighborhood. When I tried to locate it, I noticed that the air seemed to be sucked into the wall. On closer inspection I also noticed the wallpaper peeling slightly in the corner. The little flap that had come loose was bending in the flow of the air.

When I peeled away the whole wallpaper I found myself standing in front of an iron door. Again, this was strange. I had lived in this house for years and never once felt any sort of door or irregularity underneath the wallpaper. As far I was concerned there was only a wall that separated my home from...

Michael Jackson's music had a way of bringing dormant emotions to life.
The year he passed away the media played his songs and music videos. For weeks I listened and watched an artist's life work. After that I thought to myself: whatever we the audience hear about their lives, stars and celebrities will always be enigmas.

'You Are Not Alone' had a special place in my memory of his songs. It was soulful, soothing and comforting. I took it as a memoir and as a personal blanket for days which were full of rain that never stopped. MJ's songs always stood out to me. If I had to rank the others, they would all be close seconds.

I'll admit that I was rather late to join the Harry Potter fandom for a kid of my generation. I only ever started to truly read the books and appreciate the movies at age 12 (many of my peers had been Potterheads since they could read). But once I picked up the series I became a die hard fan.
While watching the movie I adored all the Hogwarts teachers even though I thought they had rather eccentric personalities like Professor Snape. He was like that one scary school teacher who was just waiting to catch you the moment you did something wrong. I think the late Alan Rickman did a marvellous job of portraying him.
In the books, Professor Snape to me seemed to take on a very slightly different...

On an early morning she walked to the sea, hoping to see the sunrise. As she sat down, the sun slowly revealed itself to her. And so did someone else. She watched the sun's golden rays kiss his hair and set it aglow like a shining crown.
As he approached, she smiled remembering his face in every dream she had since childhood. Dreams of a different time and place where they knew each other with different names. There were dreams of conquest and fantasy. Days that were full of golden mornings like this one.
She raised her hands towards him and he held them gently. The waves breaking on the shore lapped lazily around her ankles as bits of soft sand crept between her toes. She rose to her feet,...

There is always a distinctive scent that lingers in the air after it rains. It is grassy and unusual but fundamentally clean. The rain appeals to our instincts and it harkens back to history.
Crops and wheat flourish in fields after a season of rain where the clouds pour life onto the soil and dormant seeds.
Rain has fallen like tears from the sky over grey war torn towns and cities, where old cobblestone streets bleed and tremble under the boots of men wielding guns.
The rain has watched us dance, laugh and cry. It has washed the grime from our skin and illusions from our eyes.
It is a cycle of becoming and a flow of all things just as a drop of water in the ocean will appear again when ...

Burials are mostly symbolic of things that have come to an end. In mourning the living bury the dead.
It is not so much an action but a ritual for even in death, life begins again.
Tomorrow, I will bury the things that equated to us. In a little corner of my garden under a red flowering tree.
It will honour what we have been through and will seal what has yet been unsaid.
Thus it is a symbolic doing with hopes that something good might yet come about from this beginning of an end.

The garden where our hearts once grew is overgrown and decayed. Where the great tree used to flourish with emerald leaves and colourful baubles now has died and wilted. The trinkets we hung there for every thing that made us us, hopes, dreams, promises, idealistic, optimistic, unrealistic. Back then we loved every flaw, now they are double-edged swords.
There is no grass on the lawns that were once fresh, the white paint on the benches is peeling and grey. The sun no longer shines gaily but the skies weep in an orange shade so sickly.
The cobblestone pavement once littered with petals and shiny pebbles is barren sand in the arid desert. This room that once used to hold my happiest memories...

Daydreaming:
Daydreaming, some say it is a vice, a fault, a habit. To others it is a tool that shapes the mind into a blank canvas, ready for the paint brushes of imagination, opening realms of fantastic possibilities.
Lying in a field or meadow, the tiny world, unnoticed otherwise, takes on life and magic. Blades of grass towering up from the ground are skyscrapers, lining the horizon of a bustling metropolis in an unseen fairyland.
Hanging bells of foxgloves with their curved domes and trumpet silhouette hosts concertos, conducted by caterpillars. A rose, glittering with morning dew hides a theatre and a play written by a famous ladybug. The velvet petals of the rich rose carpets the feet o...

A short story in ode to a videogame:
The days were always long in the forgotten city of the Gods. Although the sunlight shone brightly as it had in the days of old, the inhabitants of the city had lost their life's purpose and along with that their senses. Only a few knights remained as guardians of the realm. Forever loyal to their leader, the last God of the old ages and the last of the royal family left in that forsaken place. In reverence to the sun and with guidance from the moon, these knights travelled to distant lands to bring justice to those who sullied the name of the Gods.
One such knight would often return to the forgotten city from his expeditions just to gaze upon the beauty o...

To write again, how long has it been? A year, maybe two? After feeling like I have been pulled in different directions and trapped and guilty for not making the most of my comfortable life, I return to write on this medium of digital pen and paper. When I feel that I fail in all else, I return to my words, plucked from air and my palace in my mind. I have spent too much time hiding and denying myself the urge to write. Now I am sure and I will continue to write even if I must do so in secret, away from the eyes of those around me.
To those of you who are also hiding, pursue your talents and hone your innate skill. You are strong and even more beautiful when you chase your dreams. Those days ...

Dear friend of mine,
I was happy to coincidentally bump into you today. I am glad to see that you are doing well and that you and your family are enjoying the holidays. I wish to thank you for the many times you have helped me and to apologize for not contacting you these past months. Like many schoolmates in our batch, we had fleeting laughs together but I will always be grateful for the things you have done for me.
Dear friend, I wish that you have a happy and fulfilled life. Thank you